


I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: And now my favorite color is blue [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Biting, Derek Hale Has No Chill, First Dates, M/M, Marking, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease, Teen Derek Hale, Teen Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, full shift derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25750978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: “You can't just do that every time you want me to be quiet,” Stiles says, more like gasps, when Derek finally releases his hold on Stiles's jaw (and if Stiles bites back a disappointed whine, well, who could fucking blame him).“Yes I can,” Derek says. “And if I didn't, you'd still be talking and I wouldn't be able to do what I actually came here for.”“Which is?” Stiles asks suspiciously.“Ask you a question,” Derek says, swiping a thumb over Stiles's cheek, flushed pink. “I'm taking you out on Friday.”“I don't think you know what question means, Derek. There's usually a question mark at the end of a sentence. That's kind of the whole point.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: And now my favorite color is blue [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859086
Comments: 41
Kudos: 947





	I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight

**Author's Note:**

> How does this keep happening? No one knows. This series is a runaway car driving itself straight to hell. For the discord peeps as usual!

Stiles isn't exactly sure when Derek is going to stop being so confusing. Of course the rub of the whole matter was that he wasn't really confusing at all, not when it came to Stiles at least. It's equal parts maddening and intoxicating, the way Derek looks at him, talks about him. Like Stiles is the center of his weird, werewolfy universe, and Derek is just somehow caught in his orbit the same way the Earth endlessly circles the sun. And Stiles, considering the complete and utter nobody he'd been his entire life up until about a month ago, has no fucking idea how to deal with suddenly being a fucking celestial body to somebody, okay. He hadn't even been kissed until Derek came along.

Until Derek came along and ruined the rest of the human race for him, because how the fuck is he supposed to ever let somebody else touch him or kiss him when Stiles will always, always remember what it was like to feel _Derek_ doing those things? The way his hands always felt so enormous, holding him close, pinning him down, how his eyes seemed to look right through him, freckled green and _beautiful_. And he'll have to, someday, right? Give that up? Because Derek'll get tired of him, inevitably. That's pretty much the only thing Stiles is one thousand percent sure of – _people always leave_.

“You're drooling into your curly fries, you know,” Lydia says offhandedly, making Stiles jerk awake from his thoughts so violently that he nearly falls right off the bench they're sitting at. And knowing him, he probably would've hit the ground with a spectacular crash if somebody hadn't grabbed him by the arms and pulled him upright.

When he looks up, he sees Derek's familiar caterpillar-eyebrows and toothy smile, blinding white, and Stiles has never quite understood that metaphor completely, the type of beauty that people say is like staring into the sun. But he thinks he gets it now.

“One of these days, you might not be around to catch me, you know,” Stiles says breathlessly.

“Not possible,” Derek says. In that infuriatingly casual way that somehow leaves no room for argument.

“You don't even go here,” Scott says shaking his head. “How do you _do that?_ ”

Derek grins and shrugs. “Independent study. Win enough games, and they kind of let you do whatever you want.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but his annoyance doesn't stop his heart from doing that hop-skip thing it does whenever Derek's near him. Which, _total betrayal, body_ but whatever. Stiles has long since reconciled the fact that where Derek was concerned, Stiles's dick did most of the driving.

Obviously the werewolf can tell, because he's got that shit-eating, irritatingly smug grin on his face, one of those _I can smell what you're thinking_ smiles that makes Stiles somehow want to hop on his dick right here in the middle of the courtyard. Or punch him in the face. It's a toss-up, really.

“Don't look so pleased with yourself,” Stiles says. He's trying to sound annoyed, but it's hard when Derek's pressing his mouth to that place behind his ear that for whatever reason seems to be directly connected to his dick. “Haven't you ever heard your face'll stick like that?”

“Are you saying you wouldn't still like me if my face _did_ stick like that?”

“You mean am I only with you for your body?” Stiles asks. “Absolutely.”

Derek laughs and Stiles hates how much he _loves_ the sound. “ _Liar_.”

Scott groans. “Do you have to do that here. Some of us are _eating_.”

Stiles and Lydia both exchange looks and identical scoffs of indignation, because it's not like Scott has a leg to stand on since he spends half the day playing tonsil hockey and making googly eyes with Allison. _Barf_.

Before they can get into that, however, the bell rings and both Scott and Derek wince. Stiles doesn't even bother trying to fight it when Derek grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, pulling Stiles up by his other hand, which he doesn't let go of. Stiles's stomach does that same flippy thing it always does, because apparently merely holding Derek's stupid hand is enough to make him weak in the knees.

“You don't have to follow me to class, you know. Or carry my books,” Stiles sighs. “I've been doing this thing called walking for almost 17 years of my life.”

“If you've been doing it that long, surely you'd be better at it by now,” Derek deadpans.

“Oh, the werewolf has jokes now,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “This isn't Pleasantville, you know. I don't expect you to give me your pin or anything.”

“I don't know what that means,” Derek says, “but you should know that I like doing it.”

“Like what?”

“Taking care of you.”

Stiles doesn't really have a response to that other than _oh_ , so he just lets Derek drag him down the hallway to his chemistry lab. It's absurd really, how simply walking next to Derek is enough to make the throng of students part like the freaking Red Sea. It's not something he thinks he'll ever get used to.

“You realize whenever you show up here, the student body collectively loses its shit, right?” Stiles asks, trying very hard but failing to ignore what feels like a thousand pairs of eyes on him. Seriously, Derek either doesn't notice or doesn't care that whenever he shows up here, it turns into a literal spectacle. How could it not when Derek is _Derek._ With the smile and the muscles and the perfect hair. Stiles is still remarking about this in rapid fire when they finally stop in front of the door, or rather, Derek stops him with both hands firmly gripping his shoulders.

“Stiles, baby,” he starts, smirking (and Stiles's throat constricts when Derek calls him that, which is so rude because he has to know how it affects him. He knows and he does it on purpose because he sucks that way), “please shut up for one second.”

“Why?” Stiles asks automatically, because when does he not have a question, to be honest.

“So I can do this,” Derek says, and then kisses him hard on the mouth in a way that is so not safe for work, but it's hard to argue with someone when their tongue is in your mouth. Somebody wolf whistles behind them, and Stiles would absolutely want to die if not for the fact that he once again is rendered stupid by Derek's ridiculous mouth.

“You can't just do that every time you want me to be quiet,” Stiles says, more like gasps, when Derek finally releases his hold on Stiles's jaw (and if Stiles bites back a disappointed whine, well, who could fucking blame him).

“Yes I can,” Derek says. “And if I didn't, you'd still be talking and I wouldn't be able to do what I actually came here for.”

“Which is?” Stiles asks suspiciously.

“Ask you a question,” Derek says, swiping a thumb over Stiles's cheek, flushed pink. “I'm taking you out on Friday.”

“I don't think you know what question means, Derek. There's usually a question mark at the end of a sentence. That's kind of the whole point.”

"I may have heard something about that once," Derek says, arching an eyebrow. "But this way we skip over the whole existential crisis thing I know you got going on up there."

"You don't have to keep wooing me, you know," Stiles says, and really he shouldn't sound so grumpy when he's being not-technically-asked on his first date ever, which seems ridiculous considering he had Derek's dick in his mouth less than twenty-four hours ago.

"Yes, I do," Derek says matter-of-factly. "Would you rather I leave a dead deer on your doorstep?" Derek asks, giving him a pointed look like Stiles is the stupid one for questioning him.

Stiles sputters because _ew no_ , before throwing his hands up in defeat." _Fine_ but don't expect me to put out on the first date. I'm not that kind of girl," he says grumpily.

Derek presses a heartbreakingly gentle kiss to Stiles’s forehead, smirking like he's just won some battle and he's about to get his spoils. "We'll see about that."

…

There was a reason for the surprise attack, and it's mostly because he knew if he gave Stiles too many days to worry about it, the boy would whip himself up into a frenzy for no reason. Agonizing over absolutely everything. He had anticipated Stiles's anxiety might be an issue. He hadn't quite counted on his own being a factor. It's not like he hasn't been on dates before – he's a 17-year-old boy – this just happens to be the first one he's cared about in a long time. Not since Paige, and maybe, he thinks, not really ever.

He wants to make it good for Stiles. Wants to make him happy, wants to _please him_. Can't quell the wolfish instinct to provide and care for him, a feeling that's been haunting Derek like an itch he can never quite scratch ever since he laid eyes on the boy. He doesn't know how to explain it to Stiles either, isn't even sure he could. Although if anyone could understand, or at least try to, it would be Stiles, he thinks. Because sure, he was joking about the deer, but he also sort of really wasn't at all.

So yeah, he might be a little nervous, but at least Derek's better at faking cool than Stiles is. Although that isn't hard. While he waits with Stiles's father in the living room, Derek can hear the boy's heartbeat pounding so fast from the floor above him that's he's tempted to go check on him and make sure he hasn't died or something. Also it would allow him to escape from the Sheriff's laser-like focus. It's not often Derek feels like prey, but he's starting to feel that way.

“Dad, if you have your gun out, I swear to god –“

Derek snorts and the Sheriff scowls, but to Derek, nothing else matters shortly after that. Pretty much thoughts freeze and fall away when Stiles walks down the stairs, and the scent of him, clean and happy and perfect, floods through Derek’s senses and as cliche as it is, the world feels like it tilts on its axis.

“Home by 11.”

“Midnight,” Stiles counters.

“11:30.”

“You're not even going to be here, so how would you know?”

“Oh, I'll know, son. _I'll know_.”

Derek doesn't even resist when Stiles basically yanks him toward the door by his collar, offering the boy's father a small wave and what he hopes is a genuine smile. It's hard to focus on much of anything else though once they're outside and Derek gets the chance to look at him.

“You look good,” Derek says, and even he internally winces at the dreamy, struck-stupid sound of his own voice. “Really good. Like... _really really good.”_

He's fully aware that Stiles is just staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “Um, thanks,” he says, shrugging. “Lydia did it. I feel kind of ridiculous, to be honest.”

“Ridiculously good,” Derek says, and christ, he means it. Whatever magic touch the banshee seemed to possess, she'd brought out all the stops for Stiles. He looks practically luminescent, glowing as bright as the light from the moon overhead. Derek can't help licking his lips when he thinks of getting to taste all that pretty, smooth skin. But still, he lunges forward, unable to deny himself the opportunity to breathe the boy’s scent in, nuzzling under his chin, against the curve of his long, slender neck, claiming that shy smile playing at the corner of Stiles’s mouth for his own.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles says, shoving at his shoulder, but his eyes are bright and he's smiling. “Down boy. You owe me a burger at the very least before you get on with the pawing.”

Derek's eyes narrow. “You get _one_. The next dog joke's going to cost you.”

Stiles's smile turns impish.

 _Trouble,_ Derek thinks. _Absolutely trouble._

Beacon Hills is small. There's not that many options for nightlife, particularly if you were looking for anything that stayed open past nine pm that _wasn't_ The Jungle, which definitely isn't on the docket for tonight. Still, he knows a place. Derek drives them well past the edge of town, out toward the old train yard, Stiles babbling on the entire time and the wolf more than content to listen to him, to the soft lilt of his voice, trembling a little, from nerves he thinks. And when he finally stops the car, Derek knows the little hole-in-the-wall diner isn't much to look at, but he hopes Stiles waits at least until he sees the inside before making up his mind. “Come on, I'm buying,” Derek says, leading Stiles through the door with a gentle press of a palm against his back.

The inside is drastically different from restaurant’s shabby exterior. It's dinnertime, so the place is busy, but not so full that Derek can't tune out most of the noise, the chattering of other customers, the scrape of silverware hitting plates, _the chewing._ The place is decorated floor to ceiling, with huge, colorful murals sprawled across every surface. Even the wooden tables and chairs are painted, splashed with bright colors—candy apple red, sky blue, yellow as bright as the sun outside. “I come here every year with my parents for my birthday,” he says, leading Stiles to a booth in the corner where there are fairy lights hanging like ivy on a trellis on the beams above their heads. “It's the only place open on Christmas Day.”

“Your birthday's on Christmas?” Stiles asks. “Dude...that sucks.”

“Don't call me dude.” Derek laughs. “And I didn't really mind. I have five siblings, so I get sick of celebrating anyway.”

“Five siblings?” Stiles asks, wide-eyed. “The closest thing I have to a brother is Scott.”

Derek makes a face, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Seriously? You have absolutely no reason to be jealous of Scott in that department. Because, _gross.”_

 _“_ I know,” Derek says, at he at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “But you smell like him. That's...hard for me.”

Stiles shakes his head but at least he's smiling when he mutters, “Dumbass _werewolves.”_

At least in this instance, Derek can't really argue with that.

...

So far the night isn't turning out like any of the mortifying, embarrassing scenarios his anxious mind played out in a loop for the last three days. Derek is... _sweet_. He does things like pull out Stiles's chair like some dude from a Victorian romance novel. And when Stiles talks, rambling about nothing, Derek _listens_. It's a little unsettling, to be honest, because Stiles isn't used to people paying full attention to him. The food is good too, although Stiles notes that Derek hardly eats and he's pretty sure it's because the boy spends most of his time watching Stiles eat like it's the most captivating thing he's ever watched.

“Aren't you hungry?” Stiles asks, finally, licking salt and french fry grease off his fingers.

“Not for this.” Derek's eyes follow the movements like he's tracking them and it takes about five seconds for Stiles to realize why he's looking at him like that. And it's definitely not a trick of the light when that electric blue flares bright for just a second before that familiar sea-glass green bleeds back into his irises. Thankfully it's dim, Stiles thinks, but that doesn't stop what he's sure is the mother of all blushes from blooming hot on his face.

“You're ridiculous,” Stiles mutters. “I'm eating your fries.”

It feels like before Stiles even finishes that sentence, Derek's shoved his entire plate in front of Stiles, looking all proud like it's a deer he just killed instead of a mound of half-eaten french fries. _What an idiot_ , Stiles thinks, shaking his head, but even he can hear how it sounds more like fondness than irritation, even in his own mind. It is nice though, being here together without the added unspoken weight of a million questioning eyes on them.

Once Stiles is finished, Derek pays, and yeah Stiles guesses that's par for the course for a date, but it still doesn't stop him from attempting to pitch in. Derek actually growls at him though, snatching the check so quickly from the table that to Stiles's eyes, his hand is nothing more than a blur.

“Using your werewolf mojo is cheating,” Stiles grumbles. Derek only gives him that familiar pointed grin that reminds him of a shark. A hungry one, he thinks, and Stiles is pretty sure he knows what's on the menu, and it's not french fries. Heat flares in his belly at the thought and Derek's eyebrow shoots straight up into his hairline.

“Shut up,” Stiles grouses, but he still goes willingly (and to be honest, happily) when Derek pulls him up from the chair, his other hand full of leftover diner food. Plus pie. At least Derek had possessed foresight enough to ask for pie.

“Come on,” Derek says, “I have something to show you.”

“If it's your dick, I'm going to be extremely disappointed,” Stiles says, sticking out his tongue.

...

Once they're back in the car, Derek drives wordlessly for awhile. He doesn't normally drive with music on, especially not the radio, with the way the high pitched whine of static always seemed to hurt his ears. He bypasses the road back to Stiles's neighborhood, and heads out toward the preserve instead.

“If this was a horror movie, this would definitely be the part where you take me out into the middle of nowhere to murder me,” Stiles hums around a forkful of pie.

Derek snorts. “You seem real upset by that possibility.” There's a grove a little off the main gravel road, and Derek pulls in by a pair of large oak trees. They largely obscure the road, and he offers Stiles a hopeful smile before slipping out of the car.

“Am I supposed to be following you?” Stiles calls, but Derek doesn't answer, just starts shucking his clothes.

He hears Stiles's hurried footsteps, but doesn't look up.

“I wasn't kidding about the dick thing,” the boy says petulantly. “Not that I don't appreciate the view, but if this is what you consider foreplay, I must say, I am decidedly unimpressed.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You could just shut up for a minute and find out.”

“Bossy,” Stiles murmurs, but he waves his hand as if to say, _go on_ , leaning against the hood of the camaro only looking slightly confused.

Derek shuts his eyes and hears it, that familiar humming like a string being plucked, feels it reverberate up his spine, spreading out through his bones from the bottom of his feet to his fingertips. It doesn't hurt, the shift, but it knocks the wind out of him every time when he feels his skeleton literally bend and crack until it unfolds and he sheds his human skin like an ill-fitting coat.

It feels stranger than beta shift, the way his bones have to rearrange just so, but once he's fully a wolf, he feels oddly more grounded than he does as a human. He's a little larger than a normal wolf, would come up at least to Stiles waist, with thick black fur and eyes that flash cobalt under the glare of starlight. With an excited yip, he bounds over to the passenger side of the car, sitting on his haunches, flashing a grin of deadly-sharp fangs as if to say, " _Cool, huh_?"

...

“ _Holy fucking shit, dude_ ,” Stiles says, mouth agape as he looks down to see Wolf Derek gazing up at him with a look that even he can recognize on his canine face as _pride_. “This is way better than your dick. Is it weird that I want to pet you?”

Wolf Derek growls and honestly Stiles didn't know that wolves could roll their eyes but clearly he was wrong.

Still Derek must not mind that much though, because he's sliding his bulk under Stiles's hands, rumbling happily when Stiles automatically digs his fingers into the thick black fur. It's a lot softer than he expected, although were expectations really a thing when your boyfriend turns into a wild animal? He's not sure.

“Dude, you're totally purring right now,” Stiles says, laughing. “It's cute.” Derek growls at that but Stiles know it's all for show because when the wolf bares his teeth at him it feels like more of a grin than anything else.

This goes on for a while, and Stiles is more than content to watch because Derek looks like he's having a lot of fun, snapping his enormous jaws at passing fireflies, howling at the half-moon that's close enough to look like low-hanging fruit in the clear black sky.

“Hey, Wolf Boy, shift back,” Stiles calls out finally. “I want to kiss you and I'm not getting anywhere near that dog mouth.”

He hears Derek whine, then that strange otherworldly humming fills the air again, making Stiles's ears ring. He winces, but by the time the ringing stops, Derek is right there in front of him, caging him in against the hood of the car, wearing that same wolfish grin.

“That was _awesome_ ,” Stiles says, even though he can practically see Derek's big head somehow getting bigger, it doesn't make it any less true. “But also, so disgusting. Bones should absolutely not bend that way.” Stiles reaches up to run his fingers through Derek's thick, dark hair and he giggles, because _fur_. Derek makes the same purring sound and Stiles would tease him if it weren't so adorable. “It's not painful, is it?”

Derek shrugs. “It doesn't hurt. Not anymore, at least.”

“Can all werewolves learn to do that? Is Scott going to be able to do that someday?”

“No,” Derek says. “He's bitten, not born.”

“There's a difference?”

“Yes.” And Stiles wants to roll his eyes because he can hear the haughtiness in Derek's voice.

“Oh my god, you're a werewolf snob,” Stiles says pointedly, shaking his head.

“I'm not a snob.”

“That is exactly what a snob would say.”

...

“You're ridiculous,” Derek says, although he can't deny that the wolf part of him feels just as giddy as the human part of him, riding the high of the shift mixing with the ever-presently persistent scent of Stiles's arousal. He breathes in, tasting it, sweet on the back of his tongue, and bares his teeth again.

“That should not be hot,” Stiles says. “And that's not fair. You're all _naked_. Why are you always naked?”

Derek shrugs, somehow managing to press the boy even closer against the car before burying his face into Stiles's collarbone, tasting the alluring bouquet of Stiles's throat with his tongue, worrying the thin skin there was his teeth. _Blunt, human teeth_ , he pointedly reminds himself, still trying to shake off the more primal desire to bite and mark.

Stiles is the one whining now. “You have to put clothes on and drive us home.”

Derek pauses in his detailed survey of the boy's shoulder to look up at him, askance. “You want me to take you home?”

“I want you to do a lot of things to me,” Stiles says, “but we can't do them out here on the hood of your car. My dad will definitely find us.”

“But we're in the middle of nowhere,” Derek says, his throat hoarse as lust immediately flares in his veins and his heart starts to pound .

“I don't think you're fully understanding the _he will find us_ part,” Stiles says. “But my house is empty, so _mush.”_

Derek growls and Stiles winks, biting his bottom lip in a way that absolutely doesn't short circuit Derek's brain, not a bit.

…

Not only is Stiles laughing at him, most likely because Derek's not sure he's ever gotten dressed that quickly in his entire life. But even worse, Stiles also spends the entire fucking car ride driving Derek absolutely crazy. At first, Stiles keeps on touching him – sliding his hand up Derek's thigh, dangerously close to the embarrassingly obvious erection he's been sporting. Which, fine, Derek can deal with that mostly. He can remain in control. At least he could, until Stiles takes Derek's hand off the gearshift long enough to suck his thumb in between those irritatingly full lips of his, swirling his tongue over the digit, and that's when Derek nearly completely loses it.

“Okay,” Derek growls. “New rule. You keep your hands to yourself unless you want me to crash the car.” Because Derek's pretty sure not crashing the car with Stiles in it is definitely, while unspoken, one of the sheriff's rules.

Stiles gives him one of those smiles that just makes Derek want to sink his teeth into the boy's mouth and says, “Fine,” in the least convincing manner possible.

Technically the boy does obey, but Stiles spends the rest of the ride trailing those damn long fingers of his over his own throat and his collarbones, driving the wolf crazy. Then he hears the zipper of Stiles's rudely tight jeans being pulled down, and the control thing goes entirely out the window.

Thank god they make it to Stiles's house in one piece, although Derek's got his claws dug into the steering wheel (Laura's going to fucking kill him), and he knows his eyes are glowing blue when he kills the engine, turns to the boy with a look that can only be described as predatory.

“ _You just said to keep my hands to myself,”_ Stiles says, and Derek notes the shakiness in his voice, but when he tastes the air it's nothing close to fear.

“Maybe so,” Derek rumbles around a mouthful of fangs, “ _but you should still run, brat_.”

...

Okay, so perhaps teasing Derek into a near feral state of horniness wasn't exactly his brightest idea. At least, that's probably what a normal person with normal protective instincts would say, but Stiles clearly threw those completely out the window a long time ago. Instead, when Derek flashes his eyes and bares his teeth, it just sends a bolt of heat straight to his dick, and it’s with wide eyes that he scrambles out of his seat, cursing a little when he gets caught in the seat belt. "Do I get a head start?" Stiles asks breathlessly, starting to back away from the car. It seems only fair that he would.

Derek just cocks his head in that irritatingly wolfish way and flashes his eyes again.

"Okay, big guy," Stiles says, "we are definitely going to have to talk about your communications ski--" Derek cuts him off with a snarl and yeah, okay, running now.  
It's not like he can go far, but the illusion of the chase is enough to send his heart into near tachycardia, sending adrenaline pouring into his veins. Stiles hears the car door slam shut behind him, but he's already shoving his house key into the lock and fumbling with the handle. Inside, it's dark, and Stiles's breath comes in rapid pants as he bounds up the stairs, certain he was going to see those blue eyes glowing at him from behind every shadow.

Honestly, he's feeling pretty good about the whole thing by the time he makes it to his bedroom. Until he opens the door and finds himself thrown up against his wall with enough force that would be just on the side of too rough if not for Derek's hand carefully cradling the back of his head. He shivers, feeling the slight pin-pricks of Derek's claws pressed into his neck. The room is still dark, but there's enough light from the flickering street lamp to see that his window's been thrown open, presumably when Derek jumped through it.

"That's cheating," Stiles says, though it comes out strangled when he feels Derek's mercifully flat human teeth biting into his throat.

“Do you really care?”Derek murmurs, and the things he does to Stiles's earlobe with his tongue cannot possibly be a thing that humans can do, he thinks desperately. “Or do you want to shut up and let me suck your dick?”

Stiles whines, because whenever Derek talks like that, it feels like he literally ceases to be, as like a person. “Oh, fuck – the second one, definitely the second one.”

He feels the laugh Derek presses against his neck, and Stiles is about to open his mouth to say he definitely can't promise the quiet thing, but he's pretty sure the wolf gets it when he licks a hot stripe up the side of his throat and Stiles literally _chokes_. And Derek doesn't even seem to care, doesn't give him a chance to even catch his breath before hauling him up in his arms and throwing him on the bed. And first of all, Stiles is not even that much smaller than Derek, so it's confusingly hot, being manhandled like that.

For a moment, all he can see is ceiling before Derek pulls him up again roughly from where he's straddling Stiles's hips. The kiss is nothing less than a claim, because Derek's mouth dominates his with an almost feral hunger that Stiles hasn't seen in him yet. He has no idea how long they kiss like that, dueling tongues and gasping mouths, because it somehow feels like forever and not long enough to the point that when Derek finally pulls back, Stiles lets out his neediest whine yet, chasing after his retreating lips.

Derek hasn't said another word, but he's definitely not quiet. There's that persistent rumble Stiles has been hearing (and feeling) in the other boy's throat since outside in the car. Maybe his end goal is blowing Stiles, but it kind of feelings like he might never get there with the meticulous way he seems to be examining every bit of skin he reveals inching down Stiles's body.

“Lydia is going to kill you.”

“I don't care,” Derek says, and then Stiles is just left shuddering when he feels the tip of Derek's claw scratching down his torso and leaving that stupid shirt Lydia made him wear in tatters. The shaking doesn't stop either because then Derek is rubbing his face over Stiles's stomach and his chest, the barest hint of stubble scraping over his sensitive skin. Clearly he's trying to fix that whole smells like Scott thing, and he's taking his job very seriously.

“I like these pants,” Stiles breathes when Derek starts to fiddle with the snap on his jeans, “please don't rip them.”

“Hmm,” Derek says, nosing at Stiles's bellybutton before sliding his tongue under the waistband like he's just testing the skin there. “I do too.” That appears to be enough for the wolf to salvage them, because he's surprisingly gentle when he pulls them off along with his boxers until Stiles is completely (and unfairly, in his opinion) naked.

“I think we discussed this before,” Stiles sputters. God it's so hard to talk when Derek is sucking on his hipbones like that. “Reciprocity.”

Stiles feels the press of teeth against his thigh that he assumes is a snarky grin . “You talked,” Derek murmurs, nosing at the back of Stiles's knee before bathing it with his tongue, which makes Stiles's leg shoot up off the bed, narrowly missing Derek's face. The wolf hardly seems fazed.“I pretended to listen.”

“So rude,” Stiles hisses, and then Derek bites down hard on his thigh and he yelps. Not his finest moment, Stiles thinks, and then the thinking entirely stops when Derek's impossibly hot hand curls around his dick. Hardly a breath later and then Derek's mouth is around him, sucking him down with the same fury as the kiss from before. His hips buck and Derek somehow manages an impressive snarl considering how occupied his mouth is, and Stiles whimpers weakly, digging his fingers into the wolf's thick, black hair like he's looking for something, anything to hold on to.

...

God, the taste of Stiles will literally be the death of him. Derek can't get enough, and it's nowhere close to the full moon but the feeling is the same. That buzzing, restlessness that lurks under his skin and it has to be Stiles causing it, because he's the variable. The only thing that's changed. Stiles's nails scratch into his scalp, tugging on his hair hard enough to hurt, but he's glad for it. It's a pain that's grounding enough to keep his claws in check so his fingers remain unshifted, though they're dug bruise-tight, curled into Stiles's thighs.

Stiles has gone shockingly nonverbal, and as Derek sucks and licks, gazing up through his lashes at all that pretty, flushed skin, he can't help but feel a little bit proud that all that's managed to fall out of the boy's scarlet mouth is some strange not-quite-words litany of slurred vowels and consonants Derek's almost ninety percent sure is entirely swear words.

“Oh my god,” Stiles finally manages to make sense enough for Derek to actually hear him, “don't you ever need to breathe?”

Derek pulls off of him with a noise that sounds obscene even to him, and Stiles cries out, his grip on Derek's hair tightening. Derek ignores all of this in favor of catching Stiles's mouth again, grinding his hips against the boy's as he covers him with his whole frame. Stiles throws his throat back and Derek can't say no, sucking a trail of bruises all the way down to his chest.

...

“You're such an asshole,” Stiles whines, “I'm going to have to wear turtlenecks for the rest of my life.”And jesus, he knows he doesn't sound mad about it at all, how could he when Derek is doing this to him, running his hands and his mouth over every inch of Stiles's skin. It's so overwhelming Stiles could almost cry.

“You love it,” Derek hisses. Stiles can hear it, the wolf, making his voice that impossibly low scratch that gives him goosebumps. God dammit, he does. He really does.

“I want – “ Stiles starts, but god, does he even know other than _more please_?

Derek's hand has slipped between them, pumping his length with same rhythm of his tongue as he thrusts it in Stiles's gasping mouth. “Anything, baby. Just ask.”

All he knows is the writhing, coiling need that feels like it's twisting up his insides. “Fuck me, please?” It's not what he expected to come out but he knows he means it. Surely Derek will believe him too, has to, because Stiles's heartbeat is steady, okay. Sure it feels like it's beating so hard it might burst right out of his chest but there's no skips, no faltering, he'd bet his life on it.

Derek lets out this wrecked sound that even Stiles is pretty sure he hasn't even heard come out of the wolf's mouth before, and what does that mean? Because Derek's gone all still and Stiles is positive he's wrecked everything. But Derek must sense this, some chemical shift in his scent because he's nuzzling him, pressing achingly gentle kisses along the line of Stiles's jaw.

“Fuck, I want to, baby,” Derek murmurs, “I want to so fucking badly. _Look at_ you.”

Stiles's throat constricts, because Derek is telling him no, he knows it, and the thought sends him spiraling into something that feels a lot like despair.

“Not tonight.”

“But why?” he whines, sounding needier than ever.

“Not in control enough,” Derek says, groaning into Stiles's shoulder. And he sounds as busted up about it as Stiles does, so that's something they share at least.

“But I _want_ ,” and Stiles is definitely aware that this is one of those moments Derek would absolutely classify as bratty, but he's too worked up to care, because he feels this empty thing inside that he never noticed before and he knows that Derek can fill it, was made to, like they're two broken pieces fitting back together.

“I know,” Derek says, nipping at Stiles's bottom lip almost like an apology.

...

It's a testament to his mother's training that Derek _is_ still hanging on to at least a shred of it, control (and holy shit he can't think about his mother right now, he can't), but he knows he's peering dangerously close to the edge here. It's still jarring, because it wasn't something he struggled with so much with anybody else. But then again, he's never wanted to lose himself so utterly in another person before.

Stiles's sharp nails feel like tiny bee stings along his spine as he clings to him, makes those soft little needy sounds that make Derek want literally _jump_ off that edge and right into all that willing heat. That's precisely why he can't, not yet, not when the wolf is scratching at the door so intensely that Derek's scared to open it.

“You want my fingers, baby?” Derek gasps. He could do that. He could hold himself together enough to give Stiles that. Fuck, he _wants_ to give him that. Wants so badly to see him come apart with any part of Derek inside of him. Craves it in a way he hasn't craved anything before in his entire life.

Stiles keens and spreads his legs almost immediately which he guesses is an answer in itself.

Derek lets out a shaky breath.

“I want to see you,” Stiles murmurs. “I haven't – _not fair_.”

Derek kisses one of Stiles's adorably bony kneecaps before sitting back on his heels and stripping off his shirt and throwing it carelessly on the floor.

“ _Pants too,”_ Stiles says, more like demands. So Derek obeys. This time, he's not going to say no to almost anything Stiles wants at this point.

“And you say I'm bossy.”

“You _are_ bossy,” Stiles says, choking back a laugh when Derek takes the boy's still-weeping cock in hand and pumps it in his clenched fist.

He needs lube too, which he knows immediately is in Stiles's bedside table, because a) he can smell it, and b) Stiles is a horny teenage boy so there's a limited number of places it could be, anyway. Stiles only whines a little when he pulls away, but the distance aches all the same, even if it's just for a moment. Then he's hooking his hands under the backs of Stiles's knees and pulling him down the bed.

“No more talking,” Derek murmurs against the curve of Stiles's stomach as he mouths his way back up to Stiles's lips. “I need your mouth for something else.”

...

“Holy fuck,” Stiles breathes, tossing his head back so hard against the mattress he's surprised he isn't concussed. Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles squeaks when he feels the sharp press of teeth against his ankle. Still, he opens his mouth reflexively when Derek reaches up to swipe his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, taking the wolf's fingers inside, laving at them with his tongue. Sure, he's nervous, who wouldn't be since he's really only done this to himself a few times before, but what he lacks in confidence, Stiles will gladly make up with enthusiasm.

From the way Derek shudders and his eyes flare blue like two lanterns in the dark, Stiles thinks he must do an okay job at it. “Keep your legs like this,” Derek whispers. “Be good for me. Don't move.”

Stiles nods so fervently he almost gives himself whiplash. He can do that. He can be good. It's a little awkward, and he's a strange mix of turned on and horrifyingly embarrassed when Derek finally drizzles lube over his hole, and he's honestly never felt more vulnerable and exposed, but Derek is watching him so intently that Stiles couldn't look away right now if he tried.

The lube is wet and messy, and a little cold, but everything feels cold in contrast to Derek, who feels like he's running a fever all the time, radiating a heat that only serves to remind Stiles of the fact that Derek might play human just as well as the next person, but he isn't, not really. What does it say about Stiles that the claws and the teeth, and god, the eyes, only serve to drive him crazier with want and need. Who could blame him. _Blue is just pretty, okay?_

 _“Stop thinking,”_ Derek commands gently. “ _Relax.”_

Easier said then done, but Stiles can try. He's pretty sure he hears Derek's breath catch right along with his when he finally presses in after doing nothing but _teasing_ , brushing, circling his rim for what feels like an eternity. It's not unfamiliar, but it's different. Derek's fingers are thicker, longer, and the stretch is still an ache he isn't quite used to. Derek is being so careful, and part of Stiles just wants him to just be rough, even if it hurts a little, wants to really feel it. But he knows Derek won't, because the way he's looking at him, like Stiles is some marvelous thing he's just uncovered, gentle is what's on the menu for tonight.

“You're so – “ Derek starts, but trails off like he's suddenly forgotten how to speak. A second finger follows and Stiles wails, broken and clipped, rocking up against Derek's hand, feeling his toes curling in the sheets.

...

“ _Beautiful_ ,” is what Derek finally manages to say after too many seconds have passed before he can even remember the word, let alone say it. Because like this, Stiles is breathtaking, completely mesmerizing as his back bows off the bed, as he rocks those perfectly curved hips against Derek's hand. The boy's cock is hard and dripping, as red as the blush that's spreading slowly across his skin the longer Derek works him, pulsing against his smooth belly.

“Shut up,” Stiles groans, crying out when Derek growls before sinking his teeth into Stiles's upper thigh like he's reprimanding him.“Please don't stop. I'll cry if you stop,” the boy says, and Derek can smell it, the way his scent, all sex and heat, thickens in the air enough to practically suffocate him. That coupled with the breach of a third finger that sends Stiles's hips rocketing off the bed nearly makes him lose his mind completely.

He finally finds it, that place, angling his fingers just so, curling and flexing them, and Stiles lets out a noise so completely broken-sounding that Derek nearly blows his own load just from hearing it. “Shhh,” Derek says, and he really hadn't understood how wrecked he himself was by all of this until he hears it in his own voice. Muffled around the fangs he's only just noticed jutting out of his mouth. “I'm not gonna stop, I promise, baby.”

No more words. There's only something akin to a sob that slips out of Stiles's mouth as Derek works him, completely enraptured by the sight of the boy coming undone underneath him, from Derek's hands, and it's that heady power that's so fucking intoxicating, he has the stark realization that there's no way on earth he's going to ever be able to let Stiles go.

He wants him _forever_ , and that's something he's not sure he can even begin to reconcile.

Stiles is whimpering almost nonstop, biting his lip so hard it's white underneath the pressure of his teeth. “Derek,” he whines. “I'm need to – I'm gonna.” He can see Stiles's fingers scrabbling against the sheets, grasping and twisting like he can't figure out how to work his hands. Derek thinks he probably can't do much of anything at the moment, judging from the glazed, fucked out expression on his gorgeous, sharp-boned face.

“I know you do,” Derek says, leaning down to press a kiss to his hipbone, lapping at a bruise there that's already starting to turn. “So do it.”

…

It's too much, god, it's too much. That's what his brain is screaming but his body doesn't seem to care, and Stiles doesn't feel in control in the slightest when he feels his back bow off the bed as he undulates underneath Derek's hands. Those hands are magic, he thinks, the only thing that's keeping him anchored in his own skin, and he's not even a wolf. He's just Stiles, simple, human Stiles and he's being completely undone by the boy nestled between his thighs like he belongs there.

Maybe he does. It feels like he does.

And Stiles has never been more aware in this moment, that Derek _isn't_ like him. Even he can smell it with his dumb, dull human senses, mixed with the sweat and sex and cum and heat already permeating the air. Whatever it is that makes Derek the way he is, magic or some other biological, primal element long forgotten, he can smell that too. Sharp and a little bit burnt, like a scorched electrical wire or ozone, and he wonders if it's the predator in Derek that makes it so appealing.

“ _So do it.”_

The weight of the command hits him, raw and as heavy as Derek's blistering palm pressing him back into the mattress. Does he even have a choice? It doesn't feel like it, and Stiles doesn't care about that either, because that's it. He's gone, shrieking behind the wall of his clenched teeth and he jerks in Derek's grasp like he's been shocked. Coming in hot, white spurts over his belly and Derek's hand splayed under his bellybutton.

Stiles feels shell-shocked, torn completely apart in pieces, but it doesn't stop him from watching, wide-eyed as Derek immediately surges forward with that devil-tongue of his, lapping up Stiles's release like it's something sweet he can't get enough of. He pants, breathing uneven and shallow, reaching down with shaking hands to card his fingers through Derek's hair that's damp with sweat. When Derek eases his fingers out, it's a loss Stiles can't quite process, and he whines weakly, bucking his hips again like he could somehow lure him back into his body and god, maybe that's what he wants.

“Greedy,” Derek murmurs, but he sounds completely satisfied with that fact. “I bet you could come again if I tried hard enough.”

Stiles whimpers brokenly. “I think I'll die if you do that.”

Derek hums. “Wouldn't want that.”

…

“No,” Stiles murmurs, “Firmly against dying over here.”

Yes, Derek thinks, another time, trying not to let that thought of _again_ derail him completely. It's far too easy to get lost in the boy still gasping with that perfectly wet and spit-slicked mouth of his, in the flesh memory of the way he'd felt so tight around Derek's fingers like he really _might_ die if he couldn't keep him there. Stiles is yanking on the ends of his hair again, though, and the little sparks of not-quite-pain are enough to ground his senses again as he's pulled forward like Stiles is yanking on a lead.

He's not sure exactly when Stiles had managed to do it, slip that invisible rope around his throat and leave him collared, but the wolf in him doesn't seem to mind which is a revelation in itself.

“I want you to come, too,” Stiles says, though it still sounds a lot like begging, and maybe it is. The though puts that beastly grin back on his face that he knows would make the other boy roll his eyes if he could see. He's not going to argue with him though, not when Stiles's small hand reaches between them to grip his almost painfully hard cock.

Derek hisses, and Stiles squeezes him.“S'not going to take very long.”

Stiles just makes this pleased little noise that Derek wants to bite right out of his mouth. “Good,” Stiles murmurs against Derek's mouth. “Then you can be as brain-dead as I feel.”

Derek laughs and something in his chest clenches tight because it's not something he's had before, this easy back and forth of laughter and smiling and the type of warmth that feels the same as the sun when it radiates off of the boy.

He bucks his hips, thrusts his searching tongue into Stiles's mouth, groaning when the boy works him with the same seemingly ceaseless rhythm. He wasn't lying when he said it wouldn't take long, because he already feels it coiling like a snake in his gut, everything in his eyesight shimmering blue and white from his blown out, shifted pupils.

Somehow it's still a shock when he finally does come, pulling away from Stiles's lips to scrape his teeth over the boy's collarbones, snarling and shaking but somehow aware enough still not to dig his claws into the boy's vulnerable flesh. His nerves sizzle under his skin, but he feels okay, steady enough when he sits back on his heels and takes Stiles's cum-covered finges into his mouth, sucking the release off each one like he'd be remiss to let it go to waste. The rest he rubs into his own skin and Stiles's until the wolf is satisfied their scents have suitably mixed. _Let's see him smell like Scott, now_ , that animal part of him whispers in his still-hazy mind.

“Why is that so hot?” Stiles groans. “You're so weird. That should be weird, but is it weirder if I kinda want to watch you do it forever --”

Derek snorts. “What happened to brain-dead?”

“I'm smarter than you. I recover faster,” Stiles says, though his smirk turns into a squeak when Derek nips at his fingers with just the hint of retreating fang.

…

“And so humble, too,” Derek murmurs, the words pressed against Stiles's stomach that Derek has all but claimed as his pillow apparently. It must be late, but it doesn't matter, because the house is empty and silent except for their combined breathing and the still slight-frantic heartbeat that Stiles can feel pounding against his rib-cage. He feels all fucked out and too-heavy in his skin in a way he doesn't usually after he comes. That must be a Derek thing, has to be, he thinks, furtively stealing a glance down at Derek's expression as if he might be able to read his mind, hear what he's thinking.

Derek's eyes are only half-open, and he's still lazily licking wet stripes under Stiles's ribs and it tickles as much as it sends weak little pulses of lust his body is much too tired to actually respond to, but he squirms a little anyway. This is apparently enough to shake Derek from his task, because he looks up, giving him one of those confusingly, irritatingly concerned looks like he's worried he's done something wrong. Which is stupid.

“I'm crushing you,” Derek says. It's a little true, but it's not a bad weight. It's comforting in a way Stiles can't quite explain, but he kind of wishes it could be like this all the time. So he can't really be blamed for digging his nails into Derek's shoulders hard enough to make him growl a little when the wolf tries to roll off of him, which is just a bonus because the whole _grrr_ thing apparently does it for him. Which Stiles is pretty sure makes him a cliché of some kind, but he doesn't care.

“I don't care,” Stiles says. “If you try to move again, I'll kick you.”

Derek raises one of his ridiculous eyebrows and shakes his head. But the kiss he presses to the center of Stiles's chest, right over his heart, is conciliatory, if not earth-shatteringly sweet. “We're all messy.” If that's meant to be some kind of deterrent from staying put, it's not exactly convincing when the tone in Derek's voice is more smug than anything else.

“You sound really broken up about that fact,” Stiles says. Derek's hair is soft where he's still playing with the strands with idle, twitchy fingers. It brings to mind the fur he'd felt under his palms only a few hours ago.

“Entirely,” Derek agrees, smirking as he leans up to nip just under Stiles's chin.

Derek is so warm, and he's relaxed enough that the drowsiness is starting to set in.

“Sleep, baby,” Derek says. Stiles wants to protest, but his eyes have other ideas, closing like they've suddenly got weights attached to them.

“Don't leave when I'm asleep, okay,” he whispers. “I don't want to wake up alone.” His dad won't be home until morning. They have time, and Stiles is feeling far too needy still to think about an empty bed without Derek in it.

The laugh he hears come out of Derek's mouth is nothing but fond. “ _Never_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Join the madness at Sterek & Co. https://discord.gg/yCp9qd8


End file.
